Fly This Time

What do you mean, there’s no Time Machine?
Crunch of gravel nails it.   Broken glass.
Scream,  drawn-out laugh, or a muffled sigh.
Locked out on a night dogs howl.  To go
back or forward to a good place,  slip out
as April is ripening to May.  Draw stars
beside the one trails the feet of a lost love
over ground still vibrating to a tango
done wrong within walls knew to collect
whispers and cries of release.  We can choose
to go either way, though most machines
choose for us.  I know.   Watch for disguises
look like everyday objects.   Short list:
hospital bed, standard metal sides
hotel bed,  single or queen;   No Smoking
ashtray -- ceramic, metal, glass -- cloud
table -- coffee, kitchen, bistro;   brochure
BEER & Wine neon;  most any bar
brown bag;  Lucky; Camel;  Pall Mall;  shot
glass;  condom;  diaphragm,  test
slippers or sneakers;  dandelion;  rose
lake, white water, fall;  split rock, moonlit shell
ball;  go-cart;  rattle;  Frisbee;  ski
hot dog on sharpened stick; s’more
corn on the cob;  Ben & Jerry waffle
hairbrush;  rattail;  lipstick;  letter;  veil
grass (any);  convertible;  pick-up;  tree
umbrellas picnic ground;  altar;  onionskin
ring and ring-around-the rosy;  bell?
Think my ride’s here.  Better go.

(c)  Phyllis Jean Green,  July 23, 2005